


Tragedy Comes to Life

by romanee



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe, Blood, Burns, Canon-Typical Violence, Fake AH Crew, Fluff, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Body Horror, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Mentions of kidnapping, Mild Gore, Murder, Ryan-centric, Secret Santa, Self Destruction Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-18 00:45:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16984920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanee/pseuds/romanee
Summary: Ryan’s life had been an ongoing list of terrible things until the moment he left home. It didn’t solve all his problems, what with the being borderline poor and only having the clothes on his back plus all that he could stuff into a duffel bag thing. He could at least start anew now. Which in theory seemed simple enough, but in practice? Not so much.Being alone at home was one thing–it was a loneliness he’d long grown used to, but being alone in a world bigger than he knew what to do with was a whole new beast he’d have to learn to maneuver in.





	Tragedy Comes to Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [achievebois](https://archiveofourown.org/users/achievebois/gifts).



> RT Writers Community Discord Secret Santa gift  
> Happy Holiday's Spark <3
> 
> I'm so r ry :D
> 
> The title came from lyrics from this song: [Andromeda](https://open.spotify.com/track/50HJsANmvLcFUr5ZGbbVAH?si=7Lr6vR9ARf-AquTH1SAVVw)

Things could’ve gone differently for Ryan had he followed through with doing good, honest work. If he’d done things differently, he might’ve become a decent man who lived a normal life with endless possibilities at his disposal. A life Ryan could be proud of from starting over fresh. But Ryan didn’t.  

He’d been afraid and alone in a city too big for his liking. Ryan was running off his desperate need to leave his home state as soon as possible. Too aware no one would even attempt to search for him, and he hated how much it affected him. Even with all the distance, he'd felt trapped under an invisible force.     

The last of his savings went towards another motel deeper in the city, and as he sat on a crappy mattress, he figured it was time to take things into his own hands.       

What did he have to lose?  

Not a single fucking thing. 

Until he did.  

 

In the least expected place, an unforeseen string of events put a single light in Ryan’s life in the form of a too kind woman. A too kind woman who'd give him a home, and his first ever job at the diner she owned.  

After a month of failed robbery attempts, and pushing his legs past their limit when he’d hear police sirens, somehow when trying his hand at pick-pocketing for the first time, he by chance, happened to target the one woman in the whole city who seemed to radiate warmth.  

She was too sweet, too sincere when she spoke to him, and Ryan had stared at her slack-jawed as she pulled him to the side so she could, of all things, lecture him. 

She didn’t even know him, yet she spoke to him as if he was her child.  

Too trusting was Ryan’s immediate thought.   

He couldn’t understand why she was trying to be understanding of him, not an hour ago, he'd tried to steal from her.  Without question though, she had dragged him to her diner, sat him at a table, and went off to make coffee. All while talking about how the diner came to be under her father’s care. Ryan stayed quiet and listened as she seemed unbothered in having a conversation with herself.   

Once she was opposite of him, she pushed a cup toward him, looking at him expectantly. Under her stare, Ryan squirmed. 

“What...”  

Her smile made him uncomfortable, it was  _too kind_.       

“I asked what your name is, hon.” She lifted her cup to her lips, taking a sip. “I’m Evie, and you are? ~” She made a dramatic arm motion, holding it out toward him. 

“... Ryan.”  

       

Mrs. Evie Moore was everything Ryan had ever wanted from a mother. He'd only known her for a few weeks, but it felt like he’d always known her. When he’d asked if she had any kids, she explained, in the vaguest of ways, she and her husband agreed a long time ago it was for the best they didn’t.    

Though the longer he stayed and got to know her, Ryan thought she was a natural. She treated him like he was hers.    

For what felt like the first time, Ryan understood what it meant to feel safe under a mother's care. His need to keep running put on hold. Not gone, but Ryan allowed himself to enjoy having a home.       

 

As much as Ryan would have loved for things to stay as they were, it wasn’t meant to be.  

When her husband came home after months of being away, it was the first time Ryan saw her angry. It wasn’t a scary anger, not like what he grew up with, but she looked and sounded powerful. Mr. Moore was tall, so much taller than she, but he hung his head in shame as he made, what she called, empty promises. 

Watching them, Ryan felt frustrated for Mrs. Moore, and almost wanted her husband to leave again, but when they both got quiet, Ryan’s eyes widened when Mrs. Moore burst into tears. Her husband pulled her into his arms, and they clung to one another as if they’d never see each other again. Spinning on his heels, he went back to his room. 

Dinner that night, Ryan wanted to shrink away from Mr. Moore’s curious eyes, but in remembering how he’d hung his head as he was scolded, Ryan held his own. After twenty minutes of Mrs. Moore talking, with her husband laughing or humming along while throwing in more apologies from time to time, Ryan took a deep breath.  

She might've felt as though things weren't weird, but to Ryan they did.  

“Sorry to intrude in your home, Sir, but–”  

“Oliver.”  

Mouth snapping shut, Ryan looked up from his plate and stared into Mr. Moore’s eyes. Like Evie, Ryan realized, Oliver radiated a natural warmth, much different from his wife's, but the kindness was all the same. He sat there, mouth opening and closing. When a soft hand rested on top of his, he jumped.       

“Olly knows all about you, hon. It’s okay.” 

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Ry, that is... if it’s okay I call you that. If not, I apologize. I’m just used to Ev’s calling you that when we talked.”  

They sat in silence, Mrs. Moore swaying side to side while Mr. Moore played with his fork. 

Ryan looked between them, lips wobbling as he found his voice again.  

“S’fine...”      

If his eyes watered, both husband and wife were kind enough not to mention it as they smiled at him. 

 

A few months later when he mumbled out it was his birthday, the two tripped over themselves to plan something last minute, but he reassured them it was fine, and no, he wasn’t saying that because he was sixteen.  

“Honest. Being here is enough of a birthday gift.” He shifted from side to side then rushed over to hug Mrs. Moore. “Really, thank you for everything... Ma.”  

The rest of the day she was adamant she wasn’t crying.  

Later in the night, while Ryan was reading a book his mom insisted on getting him, Mr. Moore stopped by, looking guilty. Ryan’s thoughts went to a dark place, something was wrong, and voiced his concern, but Mr. Moore shook his head, apologizing. He did that a lot.   

“For what?” he asked, hesitant.  

That night, Oliver introduced Ryan to the world of drug dealing, underground fighting, and everything wrong with the world. While Mr. Moore,  _no_ , Oliver spoke, Ryan realized why his mom seemed so frustrated with him. 

What scared Ryan the most though, was his eagerness in agreeing to do what Oliver would be asking of him.  

 

In three weeks after learning all Oliver had to share with him, Ryan went from being the upstanding kid his mom wanted him to be; that he’d been trying to be since she gave him a second chance, to juggling his time between the diner and working jobs alongside Oliver.  

It was a not-so-little-secret they hid from Evie, but Ryan was quick to learn why Oliver seemed to never talk about his work around her. Ryan had planned on telling her after his shift one day, about everything he didn’t tell her when they first met and why he was so quick in agreeing to help Oliver. Yet one look at her bright eyes, he clammed up and scurried back home where Oliver was waiting.  

She already knew, without a doubt. Ryan just wished he could admit to out loud. Reassure her it wasn’t her fault, and it sure as hell wasn’t Oliver’s fault. Ryan made his choices, and he’d just have to live with the shame of disappointing his mom.  

Now, trailing after Oliver through the city, Ryan marked this as the moment he was going down an unsavory path full of crimes that could easily blow up in his face, and odd jobs for even less unsavory people. Ryan chanced a look at Oliver, wondering how he ended up here and why Evie stayed with him.  

A large hand landed on his back causing him to jump.  

“Ready?”  

Swallowing, Ryan nodded. Standing tall, like he’d done when he first ran away almost a year ago, Ryan turned his feelings off. The doors creaked shut, and he took a step closer to his dad, a sudden sense of dread washing over him. He tried not to think about it too much, but Ryan knew he was one of the lucky ones. Not every runaway meets a kind lady who drops everything she's doing to help a kid who’d tried to rob her.  

For the first time, Ryan found himself scared of losing something– _someone_ important; of being alone again.  

- 

As a path like this would bring, a painful number of events piled up one after another in little ways when he was busy learning how a new place and its people worked. Yelling and shoving becoming a punch, a punch becoming a fist fight to eventual blunt or sharp objects being swung around. 

If he learned anything–other than how to stand up for himself–it was panic, fear, and anger went a long way.   

Although, with the bad came the good. Ryan was painfully aware the two coincided with one another when you least expected it. It made Ryan cherish the good things he was gifted more, and he wouldn’t trade those precious moments for the world.      

However, his most precious thing came crashing into his life like a whirlwind that took the form of a too loud smart-mouthed brat.  

A brat who’d made Ryan care about someone else after years of looking out for himself, and what a change it was. No one had ever made him feel more on edge and comfortable all at once the way Michael did.   

If Ryan had really put his foot down, he would've continued working alone, he would've continued being alone in his travels through the states, and he never would’ve had to deal with the constant roller coaster of emotions Michael put him through. Regardless of his original annoyance with the kid, Ryan was glad Michael was as headstrong as he was because Ryan loved having someone to look after. He wanted to protect his little firecracker like how his dad had protected him.     

In Ryan's life, nothing ever really went right; frustratingly so. With the addition of Michael, things went to shit faster than Ryan thought imaginable, and he gave Ryan more to worry about, but Ryan found himself happier when things went awry. Getting to watch Michael excitedly talk about how much fun he had made any amount of broken bones worth it. 

- 

Heat wrapped Ryan in an unbearable warmth, but he couldn’t move. Everything hurt too much, which for the Vagabond, shouldn’t’ve been a problem. He’d been through hell and back for the last fifteen years–and that was only since he ran away. Ryan had the scars to prove it, but now, everything felt like too much.  

Everything had been piling up again. Bit by bit pieces were crumbling.  

And Ryan wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold himself together. In hindsight, taking a job this big was idiotic for one person, but again. He was the goddamn Vagabond. He should’ve been able to scrape himself off the floor and clean up the mess he’s made.   

 _“Rye?”_  

 _“Hm?”_  

 _“You’re kind of a badass.”_  

 _Choking on the cracker halfway down his throat, Ryan beat his fist over his chest, coughing and wiping the water from his eyes; taken aback by Michael's sudden calmness after his latest yelling match with a stranger. He looked over at the couch where Michael had a swarm of blankets around him. Walking over till he was standing behind the couch, Ryan cleared his throat while Michael paused his game, looking back and up at him._  

 _Ryan smirked, seeing if he’d get a_ _smart-ass_ _remark, or if this was a moment they were having. “Only kind of?”_  

 _Michael’s lips twitched as he snorted, shaking his head before going back to his game, shrugging._  

 _“What? Do you want me to call you cool? Fuck that. Just felt like I should tell you_   _s'all_. _You’re probably the only good thing to happen i_ _n my life,_   _and I guess...” he trailed off, confidence_   _wavering._  

 _Smirk long gone, a smile took its place as he waited for the boy to pick his words._  

 _“What I'm saying is thanks for taking care of me, al_ _l_ _right. You didn’t have to–you_ don’t  _have to. But you did, and you do.” Michael looked back up at him, his face a light shade of pink, his controller long forgotten as he grabbed the sleeve of Ryan’s shirt, tugging. “I’d probably be dead if it wasn’t for you.”_  

 _Without breaking the contact, Ryan hobbled over the couch while Michael moved to push away some_   _blankets to make room for Ryan. Once he was settled, he let Michael wrap a blanket over his shoulders then got himself settled beside Ryan. Head on Ryan’s shoulder, he had the controller back in his hands, but he didn’t reload the mission._  

 _Ryan kissed the top of Michael’s messy hair, fully prepared to become a pillow for the boy once he_   _dozed off._

 _“Thanks for being my family and not leaving me.”_  

 _“Michael...”_  

 _“Shut up, take the stupid fucking_ _compliment. We had a moment, and now_ _it's_ _over! Never again got it_ _!”_

 _Ryan smiled when he_   _glimpse_ _d at_ _Michael's face when he chanced a look at Ryan, his eyes darting in every which direction to avoid Ryan's. He ruffled Michael's hair, pretending not to notice his darkening blush._  

 _“Sure thing, kiddo.”_  

At the memory, Ryan managed a strained laugh before it turned into a coughing fit when another explosion went off nearby, kicking more rubble into the air. Despite the pounding in his head, he didn’t remember how many explosives he placed, but somehow that particular one felt wrong. Fingers twitching, he blinked his eyes open, ignoring the sting from the smoke, lightly tapping the floor while counting back from five then forced his arms to move so he could roll over.   

His muscles screaming as the burnt patches of skin on his legs and arms tore off causing a shockwave of pain up his spine. Screaming, Ryan curled his hands into fists to rest his forehead on, causing a new rush of searing pain through his fingers as the skin stretched. Panting as he broke out in a cold sweat, tears from both the smoke and pain ran down his cheeks as he bit the side of his tongue.  

Without looking at his hands or arms, Ryan crawled away from the mess of his blood and skin, dragging himself along the floor. Following along the side of the wall he’d been blasted into, Ryan flopped back onto his back, gritting his teeth to keep himself from sucking in even more tainted air. Despite the roof crumbling to let in sunlight and fresh air, the smoke and debris particles were relentless.   

All the while, he kept his eyes firmly shut; he didn’t want to see the mess he’d become.  

Through choked coughs, Ryan managed a wobbly smile.     

- 

After dealing with a broken nose for the first time, Ryan promised himself he’d throw the first punch if need be. After getting his femurs shattered, on different occasions, and a continuous stream of broken bones, nothing was off the table in Ryan’s book; protecting himself was all that mattered. He did whatever it’d take to ensure he got out of a predicament alive.  

Even when his vision was swimming, head pounding from someone either nailing him on the side of the head with their fists or a blunt object, leaving him a bloody, bruised mess to the point of feeling like his lungs would pop, he’d fight until he couldn't fight no more.  

Even with the decision to not let anyone get away with concussing him, Ryan had never killed anyone.  

Ryan consciously went into deals with every intention of not letting things get too bad while also expecting shit to blow up in his face. One thing Ryan prided himself in, however, was his ability to control his anger; so, when people poked fun at him for being a clueless kid, he kept his composure. Others, not so much. And they made fun of him for being young; they were the forty-something year old's who threw temper tantrums when things didn’t go their way.      

Those assholes, one hundred percent deserved a good thump to the head, and Ryan was more than capable of swinging a metal pipe hard enough to send a person's teeth flying out of their mouth. As long as he knocked them unconscious or rendered them useless, so he could take his earnings and book it out of there, Ryan avoided actually taking a life. It didn’t sit well with him after some shit he’d seen. 

The first time it almost happened shook Ryan to his core.  

One thing led to another, and things got out of hand before Ryan even processed a single coherent thought. His flight or fight instincts haywire. Blacking out in pain was a sensation he was familiar with, blacking out because of unadulterated panic? Horrifying.  

Coming to and seeing his hands covered in copious amounts of blood while a loud static noise rang in his ears, and his lung burning from how hard he was breathing, was frightening. When he looked down to the slumped over form, face swollen and red, unrecognizable, Ryan thought he'd be sick. Before his legs could take him away from the scene, he pushed forward, and with shaking hands he checked to see if the man was still breathing, had a pulse, anything.    

When he was close enough, he heard the faintest of wheezes and took off running. A few blocks away, he called the ambulance. Bones shaking in his skin as he kept his cool. Ryan stayed in place until he heard the sirens then stumbled his way back to his dingy room where he stayed and sat in the shower until he couldn’t feel himself.           

Before, a million things kept him high and alert already, but for the longest time after the incident, Ryan got maybe two hours of sleep a day. Waking up in a cold sweat as the nightmare changed every time he so much as dozed off.  

The one constant in his dreams was him killing the man. His screaming and sobbing haunting every fiber of Ryan's being.  

Despite the crippling fear, he made himself move on. Mentally and physically.  

Every city or town he found himself in, he spent hours in the gym running and using the punching bags. Taking up an interest in knives might’ve not been the smartest thing, but it kept him distracted in learning a new fighting style. When he wasn’t in the gym or locking himself away in another motel room, he picked up a growing list of jobs ranging from drug deals to beating men unconscious in an unofficial ring.  

Ryan stayed long enough to become known then hopped into a car and headed for a new destination.  

Not asking questions and simply doing what he was expected to do. It was in those hours he beat himself with a mantra he’d been telling himself since his first official-unofficial-maybe-kill:  

_ If anyone you fight dies of internal bleed, that's that.Their bodies were too weak and gave up on their own accord.You were protecting yourself. It's not like you held them down and watched the life drain from their eyes as their blood and guts spilled everywhere . _

- 

“I’ve always preferred to do behind the current work, for your mother’s safety, but if you stay down this road... you’re gonna need an alias of sorts.”  

Ryan wrinkled his nose, “Alias?”  

“Mhm, you do more hands-on work, y’know.”  

He stared at his dad, squinting. “No one knows my name though. They all call me junior, which... yeah, I don’t like, cause they’re obviously being condescending, but it's better than them calling me by my name, no?”  

His dad sighed, running his hand through his hair then leaned forward, holding him by his shoulders. “You’re good, Ry, and you’ll only get better, if this is what you want, and that's dangerous. You’re still so young...” 

“Dad–”  

“I know, I know,” he squeezed Ryan’s shoulders before letting him go, “you’re seventeen, not a kid, but still a young adult. There’s still so much you need to learn.” 

“Then teach me!”  

His dad opened his mouth, but the door into the house swung open and his mom stood there with a glare as she marched up to his dad and grabbed his ear, pulling.  

“Olly, so help me God, if you get him a gun, I’ll castrate you myself!”  

While his mom tugged on his dad’s ear some more, Ryan stood and took her hand, squeezing it to get her attention. Once he had it, he leaned down to kiss her on the cheek.  

“It’s okay, Ma, I don’t like them. Would’ve said no anyway.”  

As she let his dad go, she squished his cheeks together.  

“Are you lying to me?”  

Smiling with his eyes, Ryan shook his head, his words smushed together because of the hands on his cheeks. 

“Nope, though, I will say, I should at least know gun safety.”  

She heaved a sigh, letting his face go to hold onto his arms instead while his dad nodded his head viciously.  

“Nothing more than he already does, everything else is simply for his own safety and knows how to deal with a situation. Scouts honor, my love.”      

Without a word, she pulled them both down and kissed their foreheads and turned to go back inside, but not before stopping at the door. Her glare sent a chill through Ryan’s body. In his peripherals, his dad actually took a step back.  

“Love you both, with all my heart, but thin ice you two. Thin. Ice.” 

The door clicked shut, father and son, blinking at one another.  

“For the record... I only wanted to learn new fighting stuff.” 

- 

Holding the door open, Ryan gave the room a quick once over before motioning for Michael to hurry inside. A storm was on the way, and Ryan would much rather have them stuck in a building with a possible dickhead owner than huddled in the back of his car.  

Kicking the door shut, Ryan stepped further into the shop, yanking his hair tie out as he looked the walls up and down. He’d been handling guns for a while now, but the unease of being around so many made his hair raise on the back of his neck. One more tug of his fingers through his hair, he pulled it back up, quick to follow behind Michael.      

Michael ooh and awed at the guns in their displays, starry-eyed, smiling at Ryan when he got closer. A silent question hanging between them.  

Ryan opened his mouth, no, on the tip of his tongue when a door in the back slammed shut, a burly looking man stomping his way behind the front desk where he fucked around with some pistols. Ryan’s eye twitched, his fingers itching to pull Michael behind him.  

A large hand slammed onto the glass display case, causing Michael to jump and stumble back into Ryan’s chest, and the man looked at them, honest to God, growling like a feral animal. His glare alone made Michael tense, and Ryan placed his hand on his lower back, taking the gun he’d given Michael not even a month ago.  

If something like this made the boy freeze up, then Ryan wasn’t gonna chance him accidentally hurting himself in panic. 

Men like this were beyond reason, too happy to let themselves be eaten away by their rage–or whichever emotion they were dependent on. When he moved for the first time since staring them down, he grabbed a shotgun and started loading it with all the calm and collect of a man on a mission.      

Licking his lips, Ryan took a step back, pulling Michael with him. “Sir–” 

“Get. The fuck out of my store.” 

His words were laced with poison, and Ryan’s fingers twitched. They needed to leave now, or else he’d do something he wasn’t fond of doing in front of Michael.  

Gritting his teeth till they ached, Ryan nodded, grabbing and tugging Michael back against him hard.  

“Sure thing. We were never here.”  

He cocked the gun without hesitation, the sharp snap of metal rattled Ryan’s bones. 

“Leavin-” 

“What? No! Fuck this guy, we’re–” 

Familiar with the motions, Ryan grabbed Michael and shoved him down on the floor, the wood wall bursting into small shards of wood. Heavy footsteps charging at them with purpose. Metal snapped once more, and Ryan flicked the safety off.  

 _“Never_ _hesitate_ _. All it’ll get you is killed or severely fucked up.”_  

Two distinct shots rang out, and Ryan huffed with Michael's sharp inhale. 

 

Slamming the trunk close, Ryan wiped the rain hitting his face away and hurried back inside the car. With a heavy sigh, he closed his eyes, tilting his head back. So much for staying out of the storm. As if to mock him, hail bounced off the roof and glass.  

Pressed against his side, Michael squirmed under his blanket. 

“Michael. You can’t–” 

“I  _know_.”  

Ryan’s eyes snapped open, his voice raising.   

“You don’t! For fuck’s sake, you froze up, and at the worst possible time, panic-yelled!” He pinched the bridge of his nose, counting back from five to one. “You can’t do that. I know you don’t like to admit it, but it’s okay to be scared.”  

Michael let out a disgruntled whine, but nodded, a muttered apology the last thing he said before he curled up beside Ryan. 

 

Fixing Michael’s posture, Ryan circled around in front of him, smiling at the sight of Michael’s arms shaking from having to keep them in front of him so long, unloaded pistol in hand aimed at the back of the car. It might’ve been a cruel and unusual punishment, but Michael picked it over doing pushups, and really, who was Ryan to argue. 

“Can I stop now?”  

Tilting his head, Ryan pursed his lips then shrugged and walked past Michael, patting him on the shoulder.  

“Sure.”   

The gun flopped on the ground, and Michael groaned, his arms falling to his side as he staggered forward and leaned against the car.  

“Should’ve done the pushups, that was ass.”  

Chuckling, Ryan scooped the gun up, tossing it into one of their many bags of storage before joining Michael. They sat in silence, enjoying each other's presence. A light breeze picked up, blowing dirt into their faces that sent Michael grumbling about hating the desert while he peeled himself off the car and crawled into the backseat.    

Ryan stared up at the sky for a second longer, not minding the dirt, to enjoy the sunrise. Breathing in, out he sighed, brushing some loose strands of hair behind his ear then hopped back into the front seat, starting the car.  

They drove in silence for an hour, a new record for Michael, when he leaned forward, his elbows holding him up against the front seats.  

“How old were you when you first shot a gun?”  

Glancing over, Ryan shrugged. “Mm, how old were you when we met?”  

“Uh... twelve? Eleven almost twelve probably.”  

He nodded along, “Then nineteen.”  

“What?!”  

“Was never interested in them, hated them actually, but I learned what every part was called, what they were better suited for, and how to use them. Just never used it on a person before.”  

Michael went quiet for a while, thinking, and Ryan continued glancing at him from time to time.  

“Why’d you get me one for my birthday this year then?” His voice soft. In Ryan’s peripherals, he saw Michael resting his cheek against the passenger's seat, playing with his fingers. “Is it my fault? Why you shoot that dude.”   

Ryan reached over and flicked his nose, speaking over his yelp. “You like them. Also figured it’d be better for you to learn now; teach you self-control. And no. Don’t start thinking like that. I did what I had to in order to protect you.” 

  

“Don’t let yourself freeze up like that again, if you can help it, yeah? Even if you’re overcome with fear, don’t hesitate to protect yourself.”  

“Why?” 

“‘Why?’ _Because_ you’ll get yourself killed or severely fucked up.” 

- 

Fucking Pennsylvania sure was something. Why his mom ever wanted to visit, he’ll never know. Though, he didn’t do much sightseeing aside from visiting the restaurants his mom had written down, so he couldn’t really fault the state for not being interesting. The people he’d been surrounded by had left a bad taste in his mouth was all. 

Ryan chewed on the end of his pen until it was a gross mush of saliva and plastic, his leg bouncing, and his fingers playing with the edge of the map.  

 _Where to next?_     

Huffing, he tossed the map in the passenger seat and held the length of the pen between his teeth while he twisted around so he could climb into the back, and dug around in his bag until he found a small notebook. Smiling around the pen, Ryan flipped it open. Almost all of the east coast was marked off except the ones further north; his dilemma, not knowing where to start.   

He wasn’t picky for work, but since he’d decided to go through his mom’s bucket list of varying sizes of eateries she wanted to go to in each state, he started limiting himself to higher paying jobs. Living out of his car was a hassle as is, and keeping both himself and his car fed was expensive. If people wanted him to do their dirty work, the least they could do was cough up some cash.  

Flipping through the pages, he read over each restaurant's description.  

 _C_ _ould always loop back around and backtrack if_ _I_ _wanted. Some places might be_ _shut down_ _, for whatever reason, but regardless,_ _I’ll_ _still visit_ _the spot for mom_ _._   

Another twenty minutes of intensiveness and Ryan closed the book.  

 _Alright fate, you bitch. Where are we going?_  

He looked away as he flipped the pages, opening it at random. Looking down, he hummed and tucked the book away for safekeeping. Hobbling back into the driver's seat, Ryan started the car and started toward the highway.  

 _Let’s see_ _whatcha_ _got, New_ _Jersey_ _._   

- 

Everything was ringing, his head feeling like someone used a jackhammer to crack his skull open while his insides felt as though someone meticulously carved him open, stuffing him full with a pack of matches, sewed him back up, but not before tossing a lit match inside. Leaving him to burn from the inside out. 

When Ryan tried to open his eyes, he groaned as it caused them to ache, swollen shut. He clenched his fingers, feeling the metal chains keeping his arms behind the chair, around his ankles a similar set up locked his legs together, and a heavier set on his lap; keeping him seated. 

As if he’d be able to rip free from steel chains. He was the Vagabond, not some hulking superhero in a comic.    

Locks clicked, and a foot kicked the door open, the sound of boots tapping as his captor came strutting into the room, his deep voice chuckled.  

“Get a good luck, fellas.” The man stood in front of Ryan, but he kept his head down, arms straining from how hard he was clenching his fingers. “Oh, how the mighty Vagabond has fallen.” He scoffed, “Pathetic.”  

A fist impeded itself into his stomach, and Ryan bit back a groan, a slow drip of blood and saliva falling from his lips. His hair was grabbed, hands yanking his head up so came face to face with the blurry version of his captor’s ugly mug.  

“Now, let’s try again. Where’s Adrian?” 

His head was thrown back, and the group circled him like a pack of sharks.  

Licking his cracked lips, he shook his head, lifting it enough for them to see his face and spit a clump of blood out. “Gone.”  

The last thing Ryan heard before an arm wrapped around his neck was an angry growl. His face going numb from lightheadedness and the continuous on slot of pain as he was punched.  

 

It felt like he’d been there for months now, but it couldn't've been longer than at least one, maybe two.  

Rolling his shoulders till they popped, Ryan tipped his head toward the ceiling while waiting for another round of beatings to come his way. They wanted him to talk, but he had nothing left to offer. Their Adrian was long gone; tied to a cinder block at the bottom of a lake now, food for whatever creatures swam around.  

Ryan’s eyes glazed over, lost in thought when footsteps ran down the hallway outside his mini-prison, and Ryan instinctively tensed, ignoring the stain it caused on his body, and kept his head down. For minutes he waited for the door to be kicked open, but when the footsteps either faded or stopped, Ryan tilted his head, straining his ears. 

A sudden sob made him jump. A body hit one of the many doors around, and more choked sobs echoed down the corridor.   

“Ryan... Ryan please...” A series of sniffles and coughing cut his boy off, and Ryan’s eyes watered when Michael called for him, begged for him to not leave him alone. 

 _Michael... thank god he’s_ _okay._  

It was almost a weight lifted off him to know the kid was fine, but the looming reminder of people coming down to “talk” with him made Ryan’s heart pound.  

Opening his mouth, Michael’s name came out in a broken croak, and he winced, his vocal cords burning from all the screaming he’d done for lord knows how long. Still, he called out to Michael, rocking himself side to side in the chair, making it scrape and squeak along the floor; the chains on him rattling.  

“Michael!”  

And in a rush, footsteps took off in a clumsy sprint. Ryan managed a semblance of a smile when he heard Michael stumbling, a string of curses mixing around his hiccupping sobs.  

Keys jingled and doors flew open, by the sound of the first one, Michael was somewhere across from him. Ryan rattled the chains as much as he could, wheezing out a soft here. Another sniffle and Ryan heard his door opening, and when it swung open, he forced his eyes to open, smiling, his split lip and all.  

Pushing his concern for why Michael was covered in blood–a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach–Ryan let himself enjoy Michael’s too rough hug warm him.  

“Kiddo.” 

- 

Over the sound of crumbling walls and his blood rushing in his ears with the buzzing, Ryan heard his name being called. No, screamed, and it made him shiver. He willed his eyes open, now blurry with tears from an assortment of feelings choking him up.  

He tried moving his head, but after being still for so long, his neck refused to cooperate. All Ryan could do was tap the ground as if that’d somehow help.  

The heat from earlier licked at his skin again, having caught up with him since moving, and he let himself go limp. He was on death's door about to be consumed by flames, and his conscience was playing tricks on him.  

Instead of dwelling on his impending doom, he let his eyes slip shut, thinking of his family.  

 _Sooner than you’d like Ma, but gosh. I can’t wait to see you and dad_ _again._  

“RY!  _Ryan!!_ ”  

 _And_ _Michael._  

“Mother _fucker_! Fuck, fuck, fuck!! Jeremy help me. What? I don’t give a fuck, I’m not leaving him here to die alone!”  

“Micha–”  

“No, you fucking listen. I’ll die a million times over before I let him even contemplate it. Oh? My skins melting? Well, whoopty-fucking-doo Jeremy, you don’t look much better yourself!  _Now._ You can either help me or fuck. Off.”  

Ryan frowned, brows pinched. Couldn’t his brain give him a break? Imaginary hands fumbled him around, lifting and carrying, but all Ryan wanted was for it all to stop.  

He had no more fight left.  

- 

Ryan feared a lot of things. Some followed him from his early childhood while others were newer. More horrifying than what he once thought was haunting.  

But it wasn’t a thing or some creature who was haunting his dream, God, if only it were something make-believe; push all the blame on  _it_ instead. Ryan would’ve taken that a million times over fearing himself. He’d felt that way one other time, and while his brain flashed warning signs, his body did its own thing.   

All Ryan wanted to do was to help Michael pack the few important items he had before they left, but drunk belligerent men were never ones to listen. Scratch that, even sober they were trash.    

The first punch was beyond satisfying, the crunch of a nose bending in a direction it wasn’t meant to, to the point of sending a pleasant shiver up his spine. When he pulled his arm back and punched a cheek, he ignored the voice in the back of his head; it sounded too much like his dad, and as the sorry excuse of a father staggered backward, holding his nose, Ryan grabbed the collar of his shirt and head-butted him.  

Everything went downhill, exponentially, from there.      

A hand, much larger than his own, grabbed his throat and squeezed, shoving him back against a wall. Without a second thought, Ryan swung his leg up as hard as he could into the man's crotch, kicking him back when he doubled over wheezing.  

“Fucking brat.”  

Ryan was so close to mashing his knee into Michael's dad's face when he caught a glimpse of Michael running toward them. A small wooden baseball bat in his hands. Ryan's eyes widened, Michael’s name a strained shout when his ankle was grabbed, and he went crashing to the floor. Ryan’s eyes blurred as he gasped for breath; somewhere above him, he made out Michael’s smaller frame then–– 

A loud whack, snarl, and yelp happened in slow motion, and Ryan thought he’d be sick, but his body held it together as the last bit of restraint he’d worked so hard on building snapped.  

Michael’s muffled crying might as well have been a knife twisting in his heart. 

Before a foot could get anywhere near Michael, Ryan grabbed the back of the boy’s dad’s shirt and pulled him away, shoving him stumbling back away from Michael. He picked the discarded bat up, knuckles turning white from how hard he gripped it. When Michael’s dad charged him, Ryan held his own and swung.  

A sickening crunch.  

And another.  

 _Never again._   

Flecks of blood spatter flying with every pullback of Ryan's arm. With every second to pass, Ryan became drenched in blood from the waist up, his pants staying more or less clean. A harmless drop here and there.  

 _You'll never hurt him again._  

His arms ached, but he didn’t stop, he couldn’t. Not until–– 

“Ry... Ry, you can stop, please.” A small voice croaked, leftover hiccups evident.   

Hands fisted the back of his shirt soon followed by a light pressure pressing against his back. At the words he froze, the bat held tight in his grip ready for another swing, but the hands tugged, pulling him away. When his back met a wall, he blinked his eyes, his vision clearing, and he looked down at the bat still in his hands and reflexively threw it away. A soft clatter didn’t reach his ears as his breath hitched, his hands fisting his hair while he slid down the wall.  

Again, hands tugged on him–this time his leg, and when he looked up, Michael was wiping his tears away. Ryan ignored the blood smeared into his hands when he pulled away.  

“Wha...”  

Michael pushed his legs down, and climbed into his lap, head butting under his chin, and Ryan held his hands to the side taken aback.  

“I know I said I don’t like hugging, but...” His question stayed unsaid as Ryan mechanically pulled the boy closer to his chest. Feeling the stress leaving Michael’s body, he turned his head to see the mess he’d made, but Michael shook his head.  

“Don’t look. It doesn't matter anymore, we're safe now.”  

 

Hours later Ryan found himself staring at his reflection in the shitty motel TV with Michael tucked into his side, his hands fisted in his shirt. Not moving a muscle, he ran his fingers through Michael’s hair, smoothing down some of his curls.  

 _Its getting long._  

 

When he woke up in a cold sweat, sweat soaking his shirt, he scrambled out of bed and ran to the bathroom, dry heaving till his throat was raw.  

The bathroom door squeaked open, and Michael patted him on the back.   

“You were moving around so much; I was about to kick you... bad dream?”  

He pushed himself away from the toilet, a wet laugh slipping out as he wiped his tears away.  

“Something like that.”  

Michael nodded, shuffling in place. “Can we leave tomorrow? I–I don’t want to stay here for much longer.”  

Ryan pushed himself up, leading Michael back to the bed where he sat at the end, rubbing his face. “The motel or Jersey as a whole? If the latter, then soon; got a few more jobs I gotta take care of.”    

 

A month and new state later, Ryan was still plagued by his nightmares. Michael, very vocally, voicing his annoyance with being startled awake, thinking they were being robbed or some shit.  

Every time he so much as closed his eyes, he saw red. Blood staining every surface with Ryan being the cause. And when it stopped being a random face or Michael’s dad he'd be decimating, it was  _Michael_.  

Nothing was more terrorizing than waking up thinking he’d killed his brother in his sleep.     

It made him feel terrible, but he couldn’t help it. Wasn’t even sure if he could consider them nightmares still; with how they left him feeling, night terrors sounded better. When Michael all but forced him to admit he wasn’t okay, he took it easy on him in the mornings. His snappy words never changed, but while he was ranting, he’d be wrapping their blankets around Ryan.  

It wasn’t healthy bottling his fears up, but the last thing he’d be doing was dumping years of his own issues on Michael. So, instead he gritted his teeth, keeping himself from bursting into tears with relief when he'd make sure Michael was sleeping away; blissfully unaware.  

 

 _He’s alive. I didn’t kill him. Thank God I didn't kill him._  

 

“Is it about what happened back at my old house?”  

Ryan chewed his lip, sighing then nodding.  

“If it’s cause you're worried I’m mad, I’m not. I mean... I’m mad, but not mad at you.”  

He pulled the car off to the side and looked at Michael. Really looked at him then rubbed his fingers over his eyes, chuckling. They were both fucking messes.   

“What?”  

Ryan shook his head. “You’ve mellowed out since we left.” Seeing Michael’s frown, he continued, bumping his shoulder with his knuckles. “Don’t get me wrong, you’ve pissed a lot of my employers off with all your sass, and you’re as loud as ever, but.” 

Michael hummed, scratching his nose. “I don’t want to be like him, y’know?” He looked over at him, and Ryan nodded. “Being mad is easy, sure it got my ass beat, but what else was I supposed to do? Let him throw me around like a rag doll without trying to fight back? Fuck that.” He pulled his knees to his chest, grumbling. “I only wish I'd been able to do it. Kill him, for hurting me.” 

This time Ryan frowned, already shaking his head and twisting around so he was facing Michael.  

“Michael, Michael, look at me. If I can do anything about it, you’ll never have to kill anyone for a long time. I can’t protect you from everything, and this line of work changes you in little ways bit by bit. But, for now, when it's just you and me, I want you to be a kid. Annoy me to no end, always ask for things even when we can’t afford it, just... everything.” 

Michael rubbed his tears away, sniffling and masking it as a cough.  

“Okay.”         

- 

Being a brother was the last thing Ryan thought anyone would want from him, and yet.  

“Could you stop following me? I’ve got shit I've gotta deal with, and my boss isn't gonna be too happy with a kid trailing behind me.” Ryan made a shooing motion with his hands. “Run along, I don’t have time to play family with you.”  

The kid snarled, trying to kick his shin, but Ryan easily sidestepped him; glancing at his watch he tsked. He didn’t have time for this.  

“Asshole! No one said anything about family!!” He swung his arms, his fists nailing Ryan in the side. “Stupid ass adult.”  

This is what he got for sharing his breakfast, he had only himself to blame.  

“Then please, do tell why you’ve been following me since I left New Monmouth?”  

He was going to be late, meaning less pay, and less money meant less splurging. There’d been a knife set he wanted to get, but now everything would be going to food, his car, and a new motel room.  

The kid's cheeks turned pink, but he stayed tight-lipped.  

Groaning, Ryan threw his hands up. “Fucking hell, if you’re coming with me, you do as I say, you understand?” He spun on his heel, not bothering with checking if his shadow was following him. Maneuvering around the crowd, he checked the time again, biting his cheek.  

 

“Moore! You’re late, had us thinking you weren’t... what’s up with the kid? You seem a little young to be a father.” His boss, Mr. Andrews, said.   

Ryan’s eyes twitched, smile wavering. “Brother.”  

The kid scoff’s caused Mr. Andrews eyebrows to raise, looking at Ryan with too much interest.  _Creep_. Ryan put his hand on the back of the kid’s neck, holding him in place while smiling at Mark and his associates. 

“You know how it is, same mom different dads. But about the job?” 

 

Mr. Andrews hand lingered on his shoulder a second too long, Ryan shrugged him off, smiling hurting from the amount of force he was using to keep it in place, taking the money he’d earned.  

“Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Andrews.”  

“Mm, likewise, James. And please, call me Mark. We’ll be in touch?”  

Ryan was this close to punching him in the face when he yelled and stumbled back, rubbing at his knee. Hand still held out in front of him, Ryan gaped then looked to his right. The kid had an intense glare on his face, his eyes squinting as if to dare his no-longer-boss to get close to them. 

“Let's go, you promised to buy me lunch, and it’s dinner time now.” Letting the kid pull him out of the warehouse, Ryan tripped over his feet trying to keep up without dislodging the kid from his person.  

When they were a few blocks away, the kid let him go, spinning around and fixing him with a glare, arms crossed over his chest.  

“Uh...”  

“Why’d you let him boss you around?! He was a fucking creep and deserved to get kicked!” He threw his hands up in a similar fashion Ryan had done earlier, stomping around in a circle, fuming. 

And Ryan? He blinked slowly, surprised.    

“That’s just how it is sometimes.”  

“It’s bullshit!”  

“It’s business, shits unfair when you’re still making a name for yourself, but can’t argue with you, it sure is. Now, you got a name? I’d like to know the name of my pretend brother before spending any more money on him so he can stuff his face with food.” Instead of waiting for a response, he spun the kid around and pushed him forward, leading him to another restaurant on his mom’s list.  

“Wha-uh. Michael, Michael Jones.”  

“Ryan Haywood.”  

“I thought?”  

Ryan suppressed the urge to ruffle Michael’s hair. Instead, settling on hip checking him.     

“Fake name.”  

 

Happy to be on the road again, Ryan drummed his fingers along the top of the steering wheel to the beat of a song he couldn’t remember where he heard it.  

"Where’s somewhere you’ve always wanted to go?” He asked, feeling giddy with having someone with him.  

Michael wrinkled his nose. “Eh, I don’t know. Never thought about it, figured I'd be stuck in Jersey my whole life. You?”  

“Everywhere.”    

- 

Rough hands cupped his face, fingers rubbing over his skin as if they were wiping tears away. Hushed sounds hanging in the air, but actual words never met his ears; despite how bony parts of the hand felt, they traced his face with so much care it reminded him of his mother. Her much softer hands, tracing over his face when he’d come home with a black eye and a hefty collection of bruises from both losing and winning fights down at the ring. Her voice stern, but filled with so much worry, it made Ryan feel awful for making her worry.  

His father, a solid presence behind him, running his fingers through his hair, apologizing like he always did when Ryan got put up against someone much stronger than he, but Ryan didn’t mind, told his dad so. After all, it’d been his choice to follow through with things, he could stop whenever.  

 _“I enjoy the rush.”_   

His mom would sigh, but nod, saying she’d always support him like she did his dad even if it was work, she herself wasn’t fond of.  

 _“You’re my boys. If I’m not looking out for you guys then who will? I don’t support the work, but I’ll always support the two of you.”_  

The hands left his face, and a weak whine of a noise slipped out from Ryan’s throat.  

 _Don’t go... please don’t go._  

 

“Michael, I know you don’t want to, but you need to get yourself cleaned up. Let Jack do her thing in peace.” 

“It’s fine, Linds.”  

Tuning them out, Michael squeezed Ryan’s hands for another minute then let them go to brush soot from Ryan’s cheeks. Frowning at the bones of his fingers dragging along Ryan’s face, he looked past them and continued tracing random patterns over his face, like he used to when Michael fell into a fit of rage for whatever dumb reason.   

 _Michael’s cheeks burned, it was embarrassing, but Ryan didn’t stop when he’d voice his annoyance. He just continued keeping him still and running his fingers over Michael’s face. Still squirming and trying to push Ryan’s hand away, Michael whined out a childish,_ why?! 

 _Ryan_ _shrugged_ _, pulling him back up when he tried to roll off the couch._ Their  _couch, in_ _their_ _apartment. It still made Michael buzz with joy, they still worked and traveled, but they had somewhere to come back to now._  

 _“Ma used to do this when I'd come home beat up._ _It_   _made me feel better.”_  

 _Michael froze, eyes wide as he let Ryan move him around until they were both in a comfortable position. He_ _kept his mouth shut_ _, biting his cheek to stop himself f_ _rom_   _blurting out a question he wasn’t sure he was ready to hear about._  

 _Ryan never talked about his family, all Michael knew was he was_ _adopted._      

 _Crossing his arms over his chest, they sat in silence with only the sound of the TV playing._  

 _“Feel better?”_  

 _“... I guess...”_  

He’d never been one to show affection with hugs as he got older, always happy with when Ryan instigated them but looking at Ryan’s messed up skin and visible broken bones, he wished it didn’t have to come to things like this to make him want to hold on to Ryan and never let go.  

When he moved to pull his hand away, Ryan’s faced turned, following him and Michael heard a soft whine. The tiniest bit of hope it sparked he kept under wraps.  

“Will he make it?” He asked Jack instead.  

Lindsay and Jack stopped and looked at him, but he didn’t want to see what they wouldn’t say.  

“Well, his body is thoroughly fucked up.  _It_  will make a recovery, maybe, but.” She made a vague motion with her elbow. “We don’t know the extent of possible brain damage, how fucked up his lungs probably are from breathing in so many fumes... the brain is a fickle thing. It can handle a lot of shit, but who knows what previous damage he’s sustained over the years.”  

His lip wobbled, voice shakier than he would've liked. “Things build up.”  

Michael leaned forward, laying his head over Ryan’s chest when the bedroom door opened. He turned his head enough to spot Geoff placing the chair he brought with him at the end of the bed. He looked over Ryan, whistling as he shook his head.  

“I’ll be honest, when you’d allude to an older brother, never would’ve thought it was the Vagabond. Never thought I’d met him like this.”  

Michael huffed, smile small as he closed his eyes, focusing on Ryan’s heartbeat. Though, Jack mustn't have found it amusing because a yelp later, Geoff was whining.  

“I mean, have a little hope, kid. There’s a chance he’s like us, and it’ll be a good ol’ happy reunion.”  

Michael frowned.  

“ _Geoff_.” 

“What? Don’t look at me like that, Jack; it’s how we all found out is it not?” 

He felt surprisingly calm, but his emotions weren’t in a good place, they were a light simmer, just waiting to boil over. 

“Let me get this straight. You want me to just let him die at the off chance, that in a few hours he’ll wake up?” with each word, his voice got louder, “I’d rather keep trying to help him, but if this is too much of a bother, be my fucking guest and fuck off back to Los Santos!”    

“Michael... that’s not–fuck–that’s not what I was trying to say.”  

“Then what Geoff! Fucking.  _What_?!” He grabbed his hair and tugged, “He’s going to  _die_ , and never know I’m alive! He’s going to fucking die thinking we’re gonna meet in whatever dumb afterlife, but we’re not! We  _never_. Will.”      

- 

His dad told him not to come home that evening, told him to stay out, enjoy some time with himself.  

Go buy all the desserts his earnings would get him, have a day to himself; he said.  

We love you; he said.  

He should’ve seen through the words, should’ve heard the cadence in his voice change.  

 _You should’ve died with them._  

 

The front door being unlocked was his first warning, the second, when he announced he was back, his mom didn’t holler back. Not a peep was heard except for his own breathing.  

Using his back to push the door shut, his hands slid down to the locks to twist them while he toed his shoes off, still following his mom’s rules. Knuckles white around his backpack straps, he tiptoed into the kitchen, pulling it off and carefully pulling out one of his knives. Twirling it one-handed to keep himself occupied.  

Starting with the kitchen and floor level, Ryan inspected every surface, uneasy as nothing seemed out of place. Nothing went unturned, but it wasn't until he was at the foot of the stairs where he froze. Dropping everything he ran up the stairs tripping over himself in panic. 

He went past his room, stomach churning at the sight of blood smeared on his door and along the walls; his hands covering his nose in a failed attempt at blocking the smells away as it got stronger the further down the hallway he went. Standing in front of their bedroom door, he thought he’d be sick, but he swallowed it down, clenched his teeth and pushed the door open. 

It was worse than anything Ryan could’ve imagined. Blood covered almost every corner of the room, the carpet getting the worst of it where his parents bodies laid. His mom’s body draped over his dad’s; she’d been mourning him when she was killed.    

Ryan hurt in a way he’d never hurt before; it was excruciating. His heart wild in his chest, aching like nothing he’d ever experienced. He equated it to what it must feel like to have someone rip your heart out and stab it repeatedly in front of you. He reached out then stopped, scared to touch her face. So, instead, he took her cooling hand in his left hand, his right reaching for his dad’s.  

Even covered in each other’s blood and gore, they were beautiful.  

 

When morning came, he pulled himself away from them, kissing their foreheads and interlacing their fingers despite the smell making him dizzy. Somehow dragging himself into his room where he collapsed, hyperventilating.     

 

 _Ryan,_  

 _Words cannot describe how much this hurts me to do, and I can only imagine how painful this is for you in what you must’ve found when you got home. For that I’m sorry, sorry things turned out this way. Unfortunately, one thing led to another and I got involved with people who I never should’ve agreed to meet with. If you’ve wondered why I seemed so stressed the last couple of months_ _,_   _well..._  

 _To protect you and_ _Ev_ _, I lied. Said I didn’t have anyone worth losing, but maybe that was my first mistake? But even if I hadn’t, something tells me this outcome would’ve happened regardless. People like them have long since lost any good inside them. That is if they even had it in the first place._  

 _Because even now I still don’t want you involved in my fuck ups, I won’t say any names._  

 _Under your bed, we packed a small suitcase full of things we wanted you to keep. It’s not much, but your mother insisted, she wanted you to have meaningful things to remember us by that_ _weren’t just my old knife collection_ _._  

 _I hope... I hope one day you can find it in your heart to forgive me. If not, I wouldn’t blame you and I understand. Stay safe, and_ please  _take care of yourself. Times will be hard but never lose your way._  

 _And Ry, never ever forget we love you. You’re truly the greatest gift given to us._  

 _Love,_  

 _Mom & Dad   _ 

- 

“Vagabond? Why that?” Ryan snorted, putting dinner on hold as he leaned against the counter, resting his chin in his hands.  

Michael didn’t even look away from his game.  

“Heard it in the game last night after you fell asleep. Sounded dumb.”  

At the angle he was at, Ryan saw Michael’s grin. Humming, he gave a half shrug, not bothered by the small jab. He knew the boy meant well even if he had a funny way of showing it. 

“Eh, we'll see.”  

- 

The last time Michael remembered crying this much, was when he was small, so small, and no one came to comfort him. Where he learned, no matter how much he wanted it, no one was coming to wrap him up in their warmth, tell him he’d be okay.  

Michael knew anger, having used it to protect himself, he knew it a little too well. He was also familiar with sadness, but it’d been so long since he really  _felt_ it. When his anger met the sadness he had locked away, Michael didn’t know how to deal with it. So, he gave himself to it.  

Ryan had been the one protecting him since they met, it was time for Michael to return the favor.  

It didn’t take much digging around to find out who had taken Ryan or where they were located, all Michael had to do was go through one of Ryan’s logbooks, and he had everything he needed. The problem was how far away he was. It wasn’t unusual for his brother to take jobs in other states while they were settled in another, but when he’d left, it was by plane.  

By car, it’d take Michael months. 

 

Packing all their things into the car the next morning, Michael did one last stop at the gas station then once he was on the road his foot never came off the gas pedal. 

 

He had days for his emotions to stew and warp. The confined space of the driver's seat making him stir crazy probably didn’t help, but as far as Michael was concerned it didn’t matter. His emotions were twisted into something he hadn’t felt since Ryan saved him. Michael was bloodthirsty, and no one was smooth talking themselves out of the hole they dug for themselves. He would tear everyone involved with the person responsible for taking Ryan limb from fucking limb. 

 

When he arrived at the facilities, he went on autopilot.  

Despite not being as strong as Ryan, yet, Michael loaded his person with everything he and Ryan owned that he could carry. Grenades, pistols, shotguns, throwing knives, and a metal baseball bat–Ryan wasn’t too fond of it, but Michael assured him he never had to use it; it was all Michael’s. 

From there, it was an out-of-body experience.  

He was disturbingly calm as things exploded and people screamed; it was strange, but he imagined this might’ve been what Ryan felt when he killed his dad.  

 _Huh... I’m almost the same age he was then._  

With that thought, Michael took a more hands-on approach of using the shotgun as a club when he used all the bullets, he’d never understood Ryan’s interest in knives, but as he stabbed into people he understood.   

A few bullets must have hit him, they couldn’t’ve been that bad a shot, but they didn't register. Unlike Ryan, as people fell, and more blood soaked through his clothes, Michael found himself laughing, hand over his mouth smearing blood all over his face. When he found shit-for-brains, he looked like he was going to shit himself. Michael flashed a toothy wild grin.  

“’Sup fucker.”  

And brought the bat down into his dumb face.  

 

As the adrenaline died down, Michael gasped for breath, eyes wide as he stared at the one clean spot of ground, his head between his legs. He fisted his hair, gripping it tightly as he shook. When he got feeling back in his legs, Michael forced himself off the floor, patting his pockets, the keys he needed safely hidden away, and he ran through the building in search of his brother.   

 _Ryan, Ryan, Ryan. Ryan._  

 

Body shaking from fear now, Michael rubbed at his face, smearing blood and tears over his skin as he pushed a heavy door open. There’d been no sign of Ryan anywhere, not a single goddamn thing to show he was here or where he might be, but this was the last place; he wanted to curl up in one of his blankets with Ryan, but he still needed to find Ryan.  

He ran down the corridor, not sure what he was trying to accomplish, but it was something to keep him moving.  

 _He’s not here._  

Michael froze. No.  

 _Too late. You were too late, he’s dead._  

Tears streamed down his face as he tried to choke back his sobs, but they were too much. It was all too much. He was tired and covered in blood.   

“Ryan... Ryan please...”  

He wanted to go home, but  _Ryan_ was home.  

In the middle of a building in butt-fuck nowhere, Michael cried. Ugly sobs as he begged for Ryan to not leave him alone.  

A pressure built up in his chest, but before it could force another painful cough from him, a noise stopped him.  

 _Wh_ _..._  

The sound of a chair squeaking and a light chime of chains rattling got louder. 

“Michael!”  

And in a rush, he took off, stumbling and falling all over himself in his haste. 

“Shit, dumb fucking legs, fucking work!” 

The set of keys rattled together with how much his hands were shaking, and he started kicking doors open; there wasn’t a ton, but enough to make things annoying. 

 _Nothing,_ _fucking_ _nothing! Where is_ _––_   

A soft  _here_ cut him off, and the chains clanked together, louder.  

Following the sound, he wiped his nose, and when he was in front of  _the_ door, he twisted the key in the lock, pushing the door open. Michael’s eyes widened, Ryan looked like shit, beat to shit and it sparked a hint of anger in him, but seeing Ryan’s smile, split lip and all, it faded.  

He tackled Ryan in what was probably a painful hug, Michael cried into his neck. 

“Kiddo.” 

“Ry...”  

Ryan leaned his head against him, shushing him. “Everything's gonna be alright.” 

   

Outside the building and back in the car, Michael laid blanket after blanket on top of Ryan. Happy with his handiwork, he pushed the passenger seat up all the way and sat on the floor, scooting up enough to lay his head on where Ryan’s hip probably was.    

With Ryan’s warm, solid weight against him, and his fingers brushing through his hair, Michael allowed himself to fall asleep.  

 

The hotel staff had given them concerning looks, what with Ryan looking like an absolute fucking mess, and he had dried blood smeared all over his clothes, besides that, no one stopped them. Once they were in the safety of their room, Michael helped ease Ryan into one of the chairs, started a bath for Ryan, and did a few trips from the car and back; bringing everything important up.   

Michael was in the middle of staring his blankets down– _now, do I take you guys to the cleaners or just ask the staff to wash you? –_ when Ryan pushed himself up from his chair.  

“You don’t have to...”  

By Ryan’s side in an instant, Michael lifted his arm over his shoulder, turning him around and leading him toward the bathroom.  

“And what? Let you make a mess everywhere?? I already have to deal with getting my blankets washed, the least I can do is make you comfortable before I head out.”  

In the bathroom, Michael left Ryan to it, but not before shouting at the door. 

“You good??”  

“I’m fine, Michael. Thank you.”  

“Sure? Okay well, when I get back, I'll help you wrap–” 

Ryan’s laugh cut him off. “Thank you, Mother, but I'm a big boy. I can do it myself!”   

Michael’s cheeks brighten, and he kicked the door, mumbling, “Fine, see if I care...” 

 

Michael cared a lot.  

The door clicked shut behind him, and Michael took off in a mad dash down the hall or as much as a bag full of blankets would allow.  

Once he got the confirmation that they’d wash them, Michael threw the bag at them and, in a light jog, hurried toward the emergency stairs and ran up them two at a time. 

He fumbled with the keycard a few seconds, too impatient with it trying to scan the dumb thing, and all but fell into the room, panting.  

“You okay there, kiddo?”  

Michael patted his chest, trying to catch his breath. 

“Never. Better.”  

 

For the next month, Ryan teasingly called him mother hen nonstop, holding him close when he’d demand to be let go. The two of them laughing the whole time.  

Because Ryan was out of commission, Michael picked up the slack and took twice the amount of jobs he usually did. 

“What’d you pick?” Ryan asked, eyeing him.  

“Oh, y’know~ just some fight stuff. Found a place, it sounded promising.”  

“Well... stay safe.”  

Michael smiled a too big smile, but it was genuine. He was happy.    

- 

Michael laughed maniacally as he pulled the pin from the grenade, lobbing it over his head in one smooth motion all while shooting Ryan a cheeky grin in time with the grenade exploding in a beautiful show of debris and people screaming.  

Ryan rolled his eyes, annoyed Michael took his mask off when things kicked off, but really, Ryan couldn’t be prouder, Michael had come a long way, but being dragged into a stupid turf war was not on Ryan’s list of things he wanted to deal with today.  

A few hours of work, the rest of the night was meant for packing the car full of fireworks and drive out into the desert to celebrate nothing and everything.  

Instead, someone had to double cross their employer and kick up a shit storm. This was why he hated being a bodyguard for no name mob boss wannabes. Fuckers thought the world revolved around them enough as is, but because they gained a little traction with having the Vagabond and Mogar protecting them, they thought they’d have no repercussions. 

So much for that.  

Idiot got shot point blank, and now their payment was whatever they saw fit.  

Until then, seeing Michael enjoying himself was well worth the bullshit in Ryan’s book. 

Ryan slipped the shotgun on his back off and tossed it at Michael.  

“Go wild, firecracker.”  

 

Ryan thought nothing would hurt him more than losing his parents.  

How wrong was he? Heartbreakingly so.  

 

The building crumbled in a blaze of glory, the flames dancing in the night sky. The sound of wood snapping, bricks tumbling and breaking, and fire crackling though was all static. He needed to leave, run as far as his legs would allow then run some more.  

As the sirens off in the distance inched closer, everything in his body screamed for him to leave, but his feet wouldn’t budge, try as he might, not a damn part of him wanted to move. As if it knew he wanted to make himself suffer further. 

 _I a_ _bandoned_ _him..._  

The sound of cars screeching to a halt startled him, sending him backward from tripping over his feet. Squeezing the rubbery material of his and Michael’s masks, Ryan gnawed on the corner of his lip; he wanted to scream, jump into the flames and join Michael. It’d be so easy, but it was an angry echo of Michael screaming at him that shook Ryan awake from his catatonic state, his legs trembling as he pushed himself up.  

Masks tight in his grip, Ryan ran. 

 

At home, Ryan broke down.  

He screamed till his voice was gone, and beat his fists into the coffee table till his knuckles were bloody and it was a crumbled mess. It wasn’t enough, and even as a small part of his mind told him he needed to stop, he ignored it. Destroying everything he could get his hands on in the living room.   

Ryan felt like a child again, his fear and sadness consuming the anger he felt toward himself until he could feel no more. Feeling taking too much energy; energy he no longer had.   

It took a while, boy it took a fucking while, but once Ryan couldn’t cry anymore, and his throat was raw, he dragged himself into the bathroom, refusing to acknowledge his reflection or else he’d smash the mirror. Patching what he could of his wounds, he took his time; now that the adrenaline was dying down, Ryan felt every wound at once. The bullet grazes, the few attempted stab wounds, hell, he could make out each individual punch he received, and the overall exertion from working his body into the dirt.    

Fighting through it though, Ryan cleaned himself up of all the blood and grime.  

When he fell asleep, it was wrapped up in the metric ton of blankets Michael accumulated over the years. They were the one constant in their lives besides each other when they were still living out of Ryan’s car, and they made the motel-later-upgraded-to-hotel-rooms feel a little more like a home. Temporary, but a place to call their own for a while. When Ryan woke up, he wanted it all to be a terrible, terrible nightmare, but even while he was rubbing the sleep from his eyes, the ache behind them, and the distinct tiredness that came with crying squashed that hope. 

Some hours later, Ryan forced himself out of Michael’s bed, cracking everything that’d pop to wake himself up before he shuffled his way into his room. There he dug out his duffle bags, throwing them onto his bed and like many times before, he started the meticulous process of packing them full.  

Clothes, weapons, and cherished items. 

Seeing all the stuff he now had made him smile, he went from having enough to get by to having to pick what was worth it and what was stuff he and Michael bought because they could and no one could tell them no.  

With his stuff done, Ryan cleaned himself up, rewrapping some bandages then went back into Michael’s room to go through his things starting with folding the blankets, slow and methodical. It might’ve been dumb, but each one had a little memory attached to it, and even if he couldn’t take every single one, he could reminisce on where and why Michael got them.   

When they were in order, Ryan moved on to the rest of Michael’s things, having to stop ever so often because it was too much too soon, but it had to be done.  

He had the rest of his life to mourn. 

 

 _“Don’t worry Ry, it's fine~ nothing's broken_ yet,  _j_ _ust_ _a flesh wound, nothing I can’t bounce back from!”_  

 _A spatter of blood painted the wall next to them, a body thumping loud in Ryan’s ears over the crackling of the growing fire and_ _stray gunshots._ _Ryan cursed, hurrying in wrapping Michael’s arm over his shoulder. “Shut up and come on, hobble.”_ _Their_ _employers rival was something else, he’d come well prepared with more gun power Ryan had expected and wasn’t afraid to die. If anything, he came with all intents and purposes ready to die, and that, that was a person so volatile,_ _it_ _made Ryan sick._  

 _They’ve dealt with some crazy fucking_ _people,_ _but someone who cared so little about_ _others'_ _lives was an experience Ryan couldn’t handle with Michael’s current level of selflessness._  

 _After he’d gotten kidnapped, Michael developed s_ _elf-sacrificing habits that made Ryan uncomfortable; it was worrisome, but Ryan didn’t know how to bring it up_ _._   _He didn’t like knowing Michael would throw himself in danger to protect him._  

 _Almost like he thought his life was expendable compared to Ryan’s._  

 _Ryan shivered at the thought, holding Michael closer._  

 _“Shit, these hurt...”_  

 _“You got stabbed, what_ did  _you expect?!”_  

 _No sooner did the words leave his mouth, Michael growled, shoving him away hard enough he staggered back until he lost his footing, landing hard on his side. Pain bloomed on his hip, but he ignored it, snapping his head up only for his heart to drop into his stomach. Michael was struggling to keep someone off him, the two_ _rolling around on the ground. Michael kicked him off soon enough, but as his assailant pulled himself off the ground, he’d grabbed a_ _shard_   _of wood._  

 _Ryan_ _couldn't_   _move quick enough as i_ _t_   _pierced Michael’s stomach, his scream pushing Ryan faster toward them when the man twisted it in deeper. When he was within kicking distance, he swung his leg back and used all the_ _strength_   _he could muster; nailing the guy in the throat._  

 _Not wasting another moment, he bent down to scoop Michael into his arms; his breath_ _stuttering as a few of his own wounds stretched. Heaving_ _Michael_   _against his chest he grunted, his heart rate through the roof more so when he felt Michael’s blood seeping into his shirt at an alarming rate._  

 _“Fuck.”_  

 _Michael wheezed, his hands shoving at his chest as he tried running the rest of the way to the exit not blocked off or already in flames._  

 _“Bud, stop it. I’m_ _gonna_   _drop you.” He rasped._  

 _Stop it he did not, his struggling actually got more persistent, and Ryan wanted to cry. Holding Michael tighter, he shook his side, nope._  

 _He couldn’t, wouldn’t._  

 _“I’m not leaving you!”_  

 _Michael grabbed his shirt and pulled him down hard, his head smashing into Ryan’s._  

 _Time stopped._  

 _Ryan’s head was spinning, Michael was on the ground again, scooting away_ from  _him._  

 _One step toward him, he growled._  

 _“Fuck off, Ry. Get. Out! Go!”_  

 _He shook his head, no. No, no, no, no._  

 _He reached out, if Michael was choosing to d_ _ie,_   _they were dying together._ _He wasn't losing Michael too._  

 _Michael choked on a clump of blood, spitting it out, screaming. “Motherfucker, let me go! Save yourself!!”_  

 _Ryan swallowed down a sob._   

- 

When Michael woke up, besides it being too fucking bright, the first thing he noticed was the sky, bright and blue with puffs of white drifting by, he was outside for some reason. The second thing, he was naked, not a single article of clothing was on him, and third, he was in a field; like an actual place people in movies go to have a picnic.  

 _What. The Fuck._  

All too fast, he sat up and his world flipped, his vision blurred, and his head,  _ached_. His whole body ached, but his head was the worst. It wasn’t a normal headache or a migraine; it was something else entirely. The more he moved the more persistent it got, but he pushed through because seriously.    

“What the fucking fuck.”  

Oh, that was a mistake; the words already sounded like a mess of nonsense, but his throat burned, sending him in a coughing fit that only made it worse. Throat still hurting, Michael rubbed at it with his hand, wincing as each limb thumped with pain whenever he moved.   

Slowly, he moved each limb, testing them out even though they seemed to work just fine. Besides the horrid pain? He felt fine.   

Michael held his hands out in front of him, twisting them around to check it was really him, living and breathing, and not some joke of an afterlife. He pinched himself, poked at himself, and squished his cheeks together before dropping his arms to his side.   

 _What the fuck._  

The panic set in then. His whole body shaking his breathing picking up and he had the sudden urge to run.   

Nothing made sense! It was all wrong, everything was wrong! 

Tears pool, blurring his vision further, and Michael let them fall.  

He shouldn’t be alive.  

 

Running around naked wasn’t as freeing as people made it out to be. He felt like an idiot.  

 

Everything came back in waves, from his emotions individually attacking him to his body processing touch and associating it with different things. It was a lot to process, but as things came back to him, Michael felt whole again. Bit by bit all the little things that made Michael, Michael surfaced.  

Things like his organs took longer to fully come back. His essentials were working, they hurt beyond anything he’d ever experienced, but they worked all the same. And when they stopped hurting? Michael could’ve cried in happiness–for some reason this particular emotion was important–but it was short-lived.      

When his memories showed themselves, it was an ugly mess of childhood memories he would’ve much rather not have in the first place, and everything that meant the world to him. Which in the grand scheme of things that was Michael’s life, wasn’t much.  

Remembering Ryan, as amazing as it was, was terrible.  

Whatever reason for why he was still alive must have wanted him to suffer more than he already has. Everything else had been bearable, but being forced to relive hearing Ryan’s sobs as he left him there, bleeding out in a burning building, and knowing he had caused Ryan so much pain? Michael couldn’t deal.  

 

 _He thinks I’m dead..._  

 

With Ryan came everything else because, wow, he knew Ryan was the one person he spent most his time with, but seeing it all play out before him made Michael feel awful. 

 

Breaking into their old apartment was easy enough, what wasn’t easy, was how emotional seeing the almost empty apartment made him. Michael pushed his hoodie down–long story short, homeless people were too kind, Michael couldn’t be more grateful–and let out a steady breath. It was like going back in time and seeing how things played out when Ryan came back.  

The coffee table was in pieces, the couch was torn to shreds, and a lot of shit was just broken. All of it destroyed by Ryan’s hands almost over a year ago. A whole fucking year Michael missed, and for some reason, this place was still  _theirs_. A shitty time capsule of sorts. Clenching his fists, he stuffed them in his pockets, walking down the hallway toward their bedrooms. Going with Ryan’s first, Michael turned the handle, pushing it open before taking a slow step inside.  

All in all, it looked the same except most of the little trinkets Ryan had laying on the dresser were gone, and Michael would bet if he checked the drawer and closet, everything would be gone too. He took a step back, and then another, and another till his back bumped against the wall. There, he followed the length of the wall three more steps to the right and squeezed his eyes shut.  

On the count of three, he twisted the handle to his room and pushed it open. A count to five this time, and then–Michael’s eyes widened. His hands clasped together over his smile. 

 _Goddamnit_ _,_ _Ry. I told you to let me go._   

 

After Geoff’s attempt at comforting him, Michael pleaded with them to leave, he was grateful they’d followed him here, and their concern was more than appreciated as they didn’t have to run after him.  

 _“We’re a family, and family doesn’t let one of its youngest suffer alone. My comment was_ _insensitive, and you have_ _every_   _right to be upset and whatever the outcome... we’ll be here.”_  

Michael sniffed, rubbing his nose as a watery laugh bubbled out of him.  

“They’re dumb, every single one of them.” He took Ryan’s hand, squeezing his fingers and brushing his thumb along his knuckles. “But they’re my big, stupid obnoxious family.” With his free hand he pulled his glasses off, they were no used to him smeared with tears anyway, and wormed his way into the bed, laying his head on Ryan’s shoulder.  

“I don’t like thinking about it in family terms, but fucking hell, Geoff really did just gather a bunch of immortal brats. Which, in and of itself was whole fucking can of worms, I'll get to that soon enough.”  

For the next hour, Michael told story after story about all the shit he’d been up to in the last couple of years, both alone and with the crew. He mentioned how he tried to keep his death count in the single digits, but meeting the lads threw that out the window faster than probably the speed of light.  

“I mean, obviously not, but y’know what I mean. Anyway, I think you would’ve liked them, my lads, they’re a handful, and most day’s I want to throttle them, but...” Michael trailed off, smiling as he shook his head, “god, they’re my brothers.”  

He was about to jump into another story involving too much gasoline and a bet he’d won when Ryan’s fingers twitched around his. Michael froze, voice caught in his throat while his heart fluttered. Ryan’s breathing was still shallow, but Michael felt his cheek against the top of his head. Squeezing his fingers, he moved on to the others.  

 _“_   _Things like the brain can take years to come back_ _,_   _you’re one of the lucky ones with only missing a year. But Michael... the signs of an immortal, if what you’ve shared with me are true then._ _”_  

 _“I know, I’ve always_ _known_   _since... well, since I came back and had a lot to think about, you guys explaining shit to me, just solidified things.”_  

 _“I’m sorry.”_  

 _Michael nodded, pulling the man in for a_ _much-needed_   _hug. “Thank you.”  _

 

Blinking his eyes open, Michael’s groan turned to a yawn. He didn’t remember falling asleep, one minute he was telling Ryan how much he and Lindsay would’ve gotten along then the next– 

Michael went still, and oh so carefully sat up. He didn’t dare look to his left, but he squeezed Ryan’s fingers all the same as he shifted around and pressed his ear to his chest.  

One 

Two  

Three seconds passed.  

His hand on Ryan’s shirt tightened, and his shoulders shook. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> ♡Comments are appreciated!♡


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